


Walkabout (The Downward Spiral Remix)

by pipisafoat



Category: In Plain Sight
Genre: Depression, Eating Disorders, Gen, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 15:09:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1945794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipisafoat/pseuds/pipisafoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She should know her family. He isn’t quite sure if he means Norah or Brandi with that thought, but it applies to both of them. They deserve to be happy, and getting them together on his babysitting weekends is something he can actually do. Hell, it might be the only thing he can do, anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walkabout (The Downward Spiral Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rainbowwizard1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowwizard1/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Walkabout](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/61083) by rainbowwizard1. 



> Content Note: please mind the tags! each of them is in this story in graphic detail, not just a mention.
> 
> This started as a remix of a short fic (which I recommend reading first), but then it took on a life of its own, grew enormously, mutated outside the bounds of the original, and is now only titled as a remix because I can't be arsed to come up with something different. And because, with a loose interpretation of the original, this could still maybe be a remix. Maybe.

He bites his tongue every time, wondering if not telling is as sure a betrayal as it feels. She's always put her family first, though; if he does the same, is it faithfulness?

He can't think like this. He just ... there's no way out, here. There's no answer to satisfy everyone, so he's playing this game on a first come, first served basis. Brandi called him long before Mary asked. Mary wouldn't have thought to ask what he knows if Brandi hadn’t given him something to keep secret, and he knows it. It was his own shock that led to the question, to the first lie, the only lie he's ever told her (except for the ones about his feelings, but they both knew those were lies even as he said them). But he sticks with the lie, pretends he doesn’t know anything about Brandi, isn’t her only confidant.

"Yeah, I'm here." He kicks his feet up on the coffee table and leans back into the couch, pulling a blanket over him. It's the only relic of his short-lived relationship with Abigail, and he wonders briefly if she wants it back. (She doesn't. She's told him that a dozen times over. It's an ugly blanket, and she doesn't want it back. It looks like it almost belongs in his house.)

"I can't, not this weekend." He bites his lip, adds, "Mary's taking your mom out of town all weekend, and I'm keeping the kid."

He lets his mind wander as she talks, paying just enough attention to make noncommittal noises where required. Norah occupies his thoughts instead, and he thinks about the fact that she's never met the aunt she was supposed to grow up with. The one who was supposed to watch her on this sort of weekend and take care of her while her mother went to work.

"You know what, yeah. This weekend is probably best." He calculates the sheer number of diapers he's going to have to take with him, tries to work out how to carry the formula and handle feedings and--

"Let's meet outside of Vegas on Saturday. I'll buy lunch if you bring the kid a toy." She should know her family. He isn’t quite sure if he means Norah or Brandi with that thought, but it applies to both of them. They deserve to be happy, and getting them together on his babysitting weekends is something he can actually do.

There's no way Mary won't notice the Celica's sudden reappearance, but he has practice biting his tongue, and he's supposed to be keeping Norah at his house. Plausible deniability.

* * *

"I thought about changing my name."

He looks up from the too-complicated belt on Norah's car seat. "Yeah? Something different you want me to call you?"

She shrugs. "Not really. I mean, I couldn't find anything I liked, and it just ... I can't just run away from it, you know?"

He's pretty sure all she's been doing is running away - but then he remembers the essay he looked at over lunch, the one for admission to college. "Coming home for Christmas?"

"I am home. For now. This is home." Brandi shrugs again. "Everyone's okay?"

It's only the sixth time she's asked. "Your mother's sober, Mary's still employed despite her best efforts, and you've seen the kid. Who else is everyone?"

She bites her lower lip, and he doesn't tell her about Peter's backslide. "I don't know."

It takes a minute, but he puts a smile on his face. "You've got my number if you think of anyone else."

He's only five minutes away when his phone rings. "You, Marshall. How are you?"

"You just saw me." He hangs up without waiting for a reply, and the phone remains silent until Mary's nightly check on Norah.

* * *

He bites his tongue every time she calls now. It's infrequent enough to prompt a burst of surprise that he can't hide, but Mary accepts "Old friend," when he throws it out on his way to the balcony.

His mind tries to wander, but he forces his attention to the phone even as he turns the volume down as far as it goes. "Congratulations," he tells her, heartfelt but quiet. "That's ... good job."

He almost feels the brightness of her grin, warming his skin as surely as the sun. The balcony doesn't feel quite so confining for a moment. "So you've got a place to stay and everything? All squared away for your first semester?"

Sympathy for the rising costs of books brings on a small bout of anxious deja vu, but the prices she gives him line up with what he expects, so he's not too worried that she's into anything she shouldn't be. Brandi finishes up the description of her small apartment with the sunny window ledge, and he wonders if she'd do better with a cat or a flower. Cats are easier to remember to feed, but he doesn't know the details of her lease.

"Send me your address." He knows she isn't expecting anything, but exam week in the first semester is likely to be daunting. He doesn't think he'll hear from her again until the summer break, and he's right. It's a quick call to say that she did okay her first semester, but she's not sure she can take the same number of classes after the summer; she's got to work to stay in school, and that's not leaving a whole lot of study time. He calls the bursar's office and arranges for an anonymous scholarship for her; her call the next week rambles about how awesome it is to be able to work less, finish school faster.

* * *

"Do you ever wonder where my sister is?"

Marshall glances up from his work as Mary drops into one of the extra chairs in his office. "No," he answers honestly, but he doesn't bother to elaborate. He's not lying to anyone, he's not betraying anyone, and she didn't ask if he knew. He can't let it bother him anymore, and that's getting easier every day.

"I do. It's Norah's second birthday next week." Mary swings her legs over one arm of the chair and drops her head sideways to lean against the wall. "Sometimes I have these dreams, you know?"

He doesn't know. "Yeah."

"I just wonder how long it would take me to find out if she's dead in a ditch somewhere. Or if she'd call me from jail."

His attention wanders back to the file in front of him. Would it be easier or harder for Mary to find her sister if Brandi ended up in WITSEC? Is Mary still listed as her emergency contact and medical power of attorney? "Don't change your phone number, just in case."

Mary slaps at his shin without lifting her head. "Don't be such a goddamn pessimist."

"Have you ever tried to call her?" He pointedly shuts the file and meets her gaze, as though eye contact could cure pessimism.

"She's changed her number. Didn't answer for a month, then the number was defunct." Mary's quiet for a minute, then she adds, "I mean. I hope she changed it."

He remembers the text from an unknown number claiming to be Brandi, but he'd just assumed he never had her number in the first place. Which is clearly wrong, now that he thinks about it. He must have deleted her old number at some point. "You were paying for the old phone," he remembers. "Could have cut her off or found her."

"I wouldn't have cut her off. And I can find any number I want to find, here."

"So that's why she wouldn't give you the new one. New start or something."

"You realize you're reassuring me by telling me that my own sister doesn't trust me or want to see me again."

Marshall frowns. "Sorry." He doesn’t think either of those are true, but the truth can be hard to find. He tries to find a way to explain Brandi’s cold turkey restart of her life without spilling everything, but nothing comes to mind. He sighs and refocuses on Mary, shrugging just enough for her to notice.

She sits up, runs her fingers over a couple of things on his desk before standing. "No, it's better than dead in a ditch, you're right."

"Okay. Good." He glances at the file again, tries to remember what he was doing, and glances over at his computer for a clue that doesn't seem to exist. He sighs and drops the file in his lap before glancing at the papers in front of him for a better hint.

"Get back to work, boss. And get a haircut, okay? Shaggy doesn't really work for you."

He blinks at her, reaches up to feel his hair. "Oh."

Mary rolls her eyes. "Yeah, oh. Get Delia to make you an appointment somewhere so you don't forget again. Wouldn't hurt to shave, while you're at it."

* * *

"God, Brandi, it's been almost a year. Still in school?" He knows she is, of course; the requirements for his scholarship include a report on her grades every semester. She's doing surprisingly well, but he'd never tell her that. Never let her think he had anything less than perfect faith in her back-to-school plan.

"No, I'm home. And anyway, Mary has to leave at five most days. Babysitter." There's a patch of dead skin peeling on the palm of his hand, and he picks at it absently as Brandi tells him about her classes, her grades, her professors, her friends. He makes encouraging noises every few minutes, settling himself into his ugly blanket as the monologue lasts longer and longer.

"That's great. Have you declared a major yet?" She tells him about all the choices she had. The patch of skin he's picked off is nearly half of his palm by the time she gets around to telling him that she's a clinical psychology major, and he stares at his hand for a long moment, wondering what she'd make of him. His fingers haven't stopped picking, though, and he congratulates her on a solid choice even as he watches the last layer of skin pull away. Blood wells up, and he ... he means to stop. He honestly tries to stop, but his body just isn't paying any attention to him. He pulls off more skin, watches the blood slide slowly around the side of his palm and drip onto the blanket.

"Sorry, I just ... Someone else is calling me. We'll talk again soon, okay?" He drops the phone with a clatter on his coffee table, staring in detached shock as another drop splashes onto the blanket. He pokes a finger into his palm, hisses at the pain of it. He finally snaps out of whatever headspace he'd been stuck in and pushes the blanket off his body. There are bandages in the bathroom. It wouldn't be the first time he's hurt himself “cooking dinner,” lately.

It takes him almost a month to realize that he never washed the blood off the Ugly Blanket, but there's a perverse sort of pleasure in knowing that it's there. His hand doesn't look like it'll heal without a scar, though that might be related to his inability to leave the tender flesh alone. Still, it's nice to have a blanket match him.

* * *

Norah's fourth birthday passes with one of those absurd parties where the toddlers throw things at each other and the parents pretend everyone there will be friends for the rest of their lives. He's tired of being asked which one of the kids is his, tired of getting the suspicious looks when he says none of them, tired of the mother who seems convinced he wants to sleep with her. He extracts himself gracelessly from a circle of fathers who, rather than being the baby-talk-free haven he'd hoped for, are passing around phones with pictures of dirty diapers.

He feels the same disconnect now that he did when he ripped his hand apart, when he worked a splinter deeper into his foot, when he watched the blood from an honestly-accidentally cut swirl around the kitchen sink and down the drain. The birthday cake sits heavy in his stomach, and he goes into the house. Jinx offers him some sparkling cider, but the thought of something else sweet, something else so cheerful and upbeat and _not him_ , makes his stomach churn unpleasantly. He waves her off wordlessly and retreats to the bathroom.

Mary finds him there an hour later, sitting on the floor with his head resting on the edge of the bathtub. It's only then that he realizes it's her bathroom he's in, her towel he's using as a pillow. The disconnect hits him again as she squats next to him, and he lurches forward to retch again. Nothing comes out, and Mary tucks him into her car and back onto his own couch.

"I hope it wasn't something I fed to the kids," she says quietly, and he's not sure if she's kidding or not. He tries on a reassuring smile, relieved when it seems to work. "I'd rather not be known as the mother who kills everyone at the birthday party."

He snorts and rolls onto his side. "Too much cake," he offers, and she rolls her eyes even as she shoves a pillow under his head. He reaches blindly towards his feet, and she stuffs an edge of the Ugly Blanket into his hand for him to pull over himself. "See you tomorrow."

She picks him up in time to get his car back from her house. He's careful to act as close to normal as he can muster, and she doesn't do more than narrow her eyes at him when he leaves half of his lunch untouched. It's easy to promise a full dinner and easier yet to save half of it for the next day.

* * *

Noise in the office reminds him that the lunch hour isn't endless, but he'd rather finish the chapter he's on before going back inside. He ignores Mary when she comes out onto the balcony and sits behind him, but she stays quiet for two paragraphs before cutting in.

"Did you eat anything before getting lost in your book?"

He tilts his head towards a couple of empty ziploc bags without removing his eyes from the book, and she grunts in acceptance. He's grateful for his idea of smearing a bit of peanut butter with breadcrumbs inside one bag. "Where'd you and Delia go?"

"Burgers. Brought you back a milkshake. It's in your office if you want it. Tried to text you, but you didn't answer."

"Phone's on my desk."

"Yeah, I saw it. Try keeping it on you next time." He shrugs and lifts his hand towards his mouth, only to have his wrist grabbed halfway there. "Since when do you smoke?"

He twists his wrist out of her grasp. "A while."

"Quit."

He turns the page and slips the cigarette between his lips. "One day."

"Jesus Christ, Marshall, you're being an idiot, and you're going to make the whole office reek of cheap smoke. Thanks a lot for that."

He shuts the book on his finger and turns toward her, rolling his eyes and debating blowing smoke in her face just to make her go away. Somehow it doesn't seem like it would be worth the effort, even if it did work. "Get back to work, Inspector Shannon."

She glares at him. "You're seriously pulling rank to get out of this conversation."

_Obviously_. He cocks his head towards the balcony door, a little bit surprised when she stands up and moves towards it. He's not surprised at all when she shoots one last comment over her shoulder before entering the building.

"Are you _trying_ to kill yourself?"

He'd wonder if it were that obvious if her tone weren't so totally saturated in sarcasm.

* * *

_Ant Bandi I lov you lov Norah_

Brandi drops the Christmas card on the restaurant table, scoops the five year old into her arms, and tosses her into the air. “I love you too, Norah,” she says, and Marshall pretends to be engrossed in his phone. “You’re such a big girl. How’s kindergarten going?”

Norah bubbles with disjointed stories about her teacher, her friends, her mother, and Gamma. Marshall starts when he hears his own name mentioned: “And I takes care of Marshall when Mommy and Gamma go on a trip without me.”

Brandi grins at her niece. “You take care of Marshall, huh?”

“Somebody got to.” Norah looks very solemnly up at her aunt. “He don’t have anyone, just me.”

“Norah.”

The little girl doesn’t look at Marshall, but she changes the subject just the same. “I like green.”

Brandi shoots a look in Marshall’s direction, but he continues to mess with his phone rather than face her. “Yeah? I’m more of a pink person.”

* * *

He gets a call from the university in May, asking if he'd be interested in continuing the financial aid as Brandi moves into the masters program. He doesn't even bother to check his budget before agreeing, and he gets another call the next week asking if he'd like to have them forward the thank you note she wrote.

* * *

"I'm crashing here."

He blinks unsteadily at the suitcase shoved in his hands. "Uh. Hi?"

Brandi grins. "Hey, Marshall. I came home for Christmas, but I'm staying here. I mean, Norah's in my old room, right?"

"Yeah." He sets the suitcase down and pushes the door shut behind his sudden guest. "I, uh--"

"Shit, you don't have a girlfriend here or anything, do you?"

He laughs, but the look on her face tells him that she doesn't like the sound of it. There hasn't been anyone in almost seven years, since Abigail and his last failed attempt to only feel friendship for Mary. "No, just me. Plenty of room for you. Just ... down there, second door on the left."

She studies his face for a long moment before taking her bags to his guest room, and he shoves himself into the living room to clean up a bit. There's not a lot to do, so he tosses a second coaster on the coffee table and returns to his usual spot on the couch, the Ugly Blanket wrapped around himself. "There might be some Coke in the kitchen," he offers when she emerges from the bedroom.

"I know it's kind of late, but I didn't want to stop this close. Got any sort of dinner?"

There are two rotting onions and a bottle of ketchup in his fridge. "Order something for delivery."

She flips open a bright red laptop and drops onto the couch beside him. "Anything in particular?"

"I'm good."

Brandi narrows her eyes, but she doesn't say whatever she's thinking. Not until the next morning, when he stumbles into the kitchen at 7:25 to pour coffee in a travel mug.

"Here." He takes the package on automatic, but she doesn't let go right away. "Don't make me call Mary just to see if you've eaten it."

It's an empty threat, and the bagel in question is dropped on Mary's desk as he passes by. Her call of thanks quickly morphs into a yell of disgust, and he finds the onion bagel returned to his custody. He stays late enough that dinner is "at work", and the next morning's bagel goes into the trash before he even reaches the elevator. He tells himself that the holidays are a stressful time for most of their witnesses, that it won't do to have onion breath when he goes to check on them, but he turns down Delia's muffins with a short "Already ate" three days running before she finally leaves town for her sister's get-together.

Christmas dinner is something of a surprise for everybody involved. Mary tries (and fails) to uninvite herself but instead invites a guy so new nobody can remember his name, Jinx invites Marshall to Mary's house without telling this latest boyfriend, and Marshall brings Brandi without telling Jinx. The boyfriend stares uncomfortably at Marshall, Marshall glares somewhat resignedly at Jinx, and Norah bubbles out "Bandi!" before any of the adults have said a single word. Brandi scoops the seven-year-old girl into her arms and swings her in the air, much to her delight.

"Get out," Mary says quietly, but her hand falls on her sister's shoulder as she moves, and Marshall's peripherally aware that the boyfriend is also leaving. He stops at a convenient bar, ostensibly on his way home. He's poured into his own backseat at closing, where Brandi finds him six hours later.

"You idiot, Mary thinks--" she says as she dumps him onto his couch, and he curls up under the Ugly Blanket instead of listening to the rest of the words she has for him. They'll be there the next time he wakes up.

And they are, sort of, but Brandi isn't. Her note is scrawled on the back of the other night's delivery receipt. _Think about what I said. See you at dinner - 6:00 at Mary's._

The clock tells him it's 6:02, and he sends a short text to Mary. _Intake tomorrow morning._ The phone remains silent until his alarm in the morning, but he doesn't sleep much in the meantime.

* * *

The guest bedroom is empty when he gets home. It's not unexpected, but he's glad for the vacation time. He calls his parents to cancel their year-end plans - citing work as an unexpected priority - and shuts off his phone. Curling up under the Ugly Blanket, he wonders vaguely how long he can stay on the couch without getting up. (He makes it 22 hours before his bathroom becomes a necessity.)

* * *

There's never mention of Brandi within his hearing, not that he lets anyone talk to him about anything that isn't work related. He hears things, sometimes; they think he's become too absorbed in his work, or the stress of the growing workplace is finally too much for him, or he's too full of his own self-importance to socialize with the regular minions anymore. He can't let himself think about them, but he can't get them out of his head, either, not until the night he drinks too much and says fuck it to the self control that's been taking all his effort lately. He draws the pain out of his arm with artistic precision, bleeds it into Ugly Blanket where he keeps so much of himself, and finally finds a moment's peace from the voices in his head. But one moment isn't enough, not when they keep talking about him every day, looking at him like that. He knows his own worth; he doesn't their disdainful stares to remind him of his actual place, rank at work notwithstanding. 

It's every night by the time Stan shows up in Marshall's office, shuts off his monitor, and practically shoves him out the door and into the closest shitty diner. "Delia called me," he explains before ordering them matching entrees. "What's going on?"

"Rough week," Marshall says, certain the truth of that is reflected in any information Stan can get his hands on. 

"That doesn't explain this." Stan reaches for Marshall's wrist, just barely makes contact with a silvered line of the back of it before the younger man flinches back. 

He tries to shrug it off, the scar and the flinch. "Still healing," he offers. "Skin's a little sensitive to touch."

"Roll up your sleeve so it isn't irritating it," Stan suggests. 

"It's fine."

Stan moves faster than any human should be able to, Marshall has time to think before he's totally boxed into his booth seat, Stan's fingers popping the button on his sleeve cuff. He tries to jerk away, but Stan follows, one knee on the bench, filling Marshall's air with his looming body, yanking the sleeve up to his elbow. Marshall freezes as he feels the cool air of the diner waft over his raw skin. 

"Jesus..." Stan reaches for the other arm, then hesitates. "Marshall?" 

"Fuck off," he mutters half-heartedly even as he moves his right arm into Stan's hand. The sleeve is unbuttoned slowly and rolled up even more slowly, as though giving him time to change his mind, but there's not really any point anymore. 

"Where else?"

He winces then, tugs his sleeves back down. "I'm not going to finish the job."

Stan settles out of his space but still beside him on the bench, angled just enough to watch his face. "Good to know. Where else have you cut yourself?"

The briefest of rebellions flares through Marshall, and he considers offering to strip in public to answer the question, but that level of sarcasm is beyond him for more than an instant. "Where haven't I."

“Jesus, kid…” Stan trails off, looking dismayed and maybe a little bit disappointed, and Marshall ducks his head, only to find a warm hand settle on the back of his neck. He looks up, meets Stan’s gaze for a long, silent moment.

The waitress gives them an odd look as she sets their plates in the table, and Stan slips back to the other side of the table. "This can't continue."

Marshall pushes his plate away untouched. "It can't stop. Not if you want me to do my job."

"You're on vacation, then. As of now."

"I'll start packing for the beach. Unless you had a different kind of resort in mind."

"We'll find you one," Stan says, and it sounds more like a reassuring promise than Marshall really has any right to hear. He pokes his burger before picking up a fry, chewing and swallowing without giving himself a chance to think about _earning_ food, not with Stan there watching him. He can’t let the man down in another way.

* * *

"You've got a visitor, Weed. Not on either of your lists."

Marshall looks up in surprise at Brad. "Either of them?" Everybody in the facility - at the resort, as he's supposed to call it - has a list for people approved to see them during any visiting hours and one for people who can't even be told he's a patient. He's specifically not asked if his family has come looking for him. Psych wards aren't exactly Mary's style, not even ones as nice as his. He sees Stan every couple of days, now that the man’s back in town to cover Marshall’s own job during his months of forced vacation.

"Nope. Says she's called Squish, wouldn't give me a proper name without talking to you first."

Marshall drops his head onto the table in front of him, just barely avoiding the pile of clay he'd been working with. "Shit. What should I do?"

"What's rule number one, Weed?"

Marshall lifts his head just enough to glare at the counselor. "I make the decisions. I know, Brad. It was a rhetorical question. Will you sit with us?"

"Sure. Standard guidelines?"

"Please." Marshall pushes his chair back from the table and washes his hands before joining Brad and Brandi in the visiting room as the counselor finishes explaining the standard visitation guidelines. No sharing the visit with anyone outside of the room without permission, no forcing topics Marshall doesn't want to speak of, no bringing up Marshall's condition or recovery. He considers the available chairs before settling beside Brandi on the couch. 

"Norah sent you a picture," she says by way of greeting, pulling a slightly crumpled drawing out of her pocket. 

"I shouldn't have introduced her to abstract art," Marshall mutters. 

"You should know I applied for a job here before Stan told me you were here. I wanted to find you to thank you for the second chance you at least encouraged, if you weren't actually the one behind the scholarship, and tell you it paid off. But now I know you're here..." She trails off and stares at her hands.

He sighs and looks over at Brad for help, but Brandi regains her tongue before he can reply. "There are safeguards against me looking in your file or treating you, Brad can tell you about those and keep working with you, but I can turn down the job if you prefer."

"No," he says automatically, then stops to think about it. "You earned it, and I trust you."

“Think about it for a couple days.” She stands, and he grabs her wrist. "Don't tell Mary?"

"Never. And I'm sorry we didn't do something for you sooner."

"I wouldn't have listened."

Brandi’s sad smile haunts him even after she leaves the room, and Brad kicks gently at his ankle before offering a game of MarioKart.

* * *

"It's clean," he says stupidly, standing in the doorway with his duffle still in his hand.

"We hired someone," Stan admits from behind him. "Eleanor's still out of town, and I can't imagine you'd want me or Mary in charge of cleaning."

Marshall laughs, surprised when it sounds real. "Sounds like you made the right choice." He takes a step over the threshold, then another further into the front hall, and another, until he's finally standing in his own living room for the first time in months. He bends over slowly to place his bag on the floor, stills when he spies the old blanket, still as mismatched as ever. He straightens deliberately, turns to shake Stan's hand. "Thanks for the ride. And for the other ride. Before."

"You'd do it for any of us. You'd probably notice something sooner." Stan looks uncomfortable at the turn in conversation, so Marshall lets it drop and sits on the couch, opposite the blanket.

“Are you leaving, now that I’m back? Or when I’m back full time?” He’s scheduled to take a full month transitioning back into his old job, and he’s planning to use the entire time, if just to be sure he can still handle it.

“I thought I might retire, stick around here. Maybe stay on part-time in your office. Deputy Director’s a fancy title, but the past few months … Working directly with the witnesses is why I joined WITSEC, and I miss it.” Stan pauses, sits on the arm of the couch, on Abigail’s old blanket. “If you’d have me, I mean. And I’ll need time to tie up loose ends and find a place to live, so don’t even think about it yet.”

Marshall doesn’t have to think about it at all, but he smiles instead of offering the older man a job on the spot. “Okay. Tell me what else you’ve done to my house in my absence, other than hiring a cleaner.”

"Mary said she went grocery shopping, but I think it's all frozen pizza and beer."

He laughs again, pleased to hear the true happiness echoing in a house that's been without for far too long. "Could be worse. Stay for dinner? Mary said she’s bringing Norah after her karate lesson, and Delia mentioned something about a new girlfriend. I'll text Brandi to pick up marshmallows when she gets off work; we can roast them over the fire." Stan's raised eyebrow prompts a finger to point to the other end of the couch. "That thing is too awful to stay."

"And yet I seem to recall you practically living in it for the past several years." Stan immediately looks uncomfortable again. 

"All the more reason to burn it," Marshall answers. "If it doesn’t die in a fire, it might come back as a zombie blanket, and nobody wants that. You call Delia and Mary, I'll arrange the marshmallows."

"Welcome home."


End file.
